Chapter LXXVIX: Children of Lúthien

Morning came, and despite his broken night Aragorn did not oversleep the Sun. He rose with dawn's first light to find that Elrond had respected his wishes and honoured his request. At some point he had withdrawn, and the chair was back in its accustomed corner. Aragorn moved through his waking tasks with mute precision and clothed himself in fresh linen and yesterday's raiment, sparing himself the effort of a choice. Briefly he left his rooms in search of an attendant, from whom he requested that a simple breakfast be brought. He ventured no further afield.

He had procured a flagon of crisp red wine, the better to fulfill Elrond's instructions in that respect. He used his first cupful of the day to rinse away the bitter taste of the lung tincture. Then he went to the window-seat to massage the unguent into his scarred forearm as he stared out across the gardens all but unseeing. The morning mists began to melt as the Sun climbed above the mountainous ramparts from whence he had come short days before.

Aragorn had finished the unhurried ministrations upon his sword arm by the time the soft knock sounded on his anteroom door.

'Please enter,' he said, not troubling to turn from the window. He had his knee up on the bench and the crest of his temple rested against the cool glass. That last gave him the illusion of clarity of thought. His heart felt little, still depleted from the night's strains like a festering wound scraped clean. He heard but did not truly listen to the soft sounds of the bearer's movements as the tray was set upon the table and dishes laid out.

'You are walking far from the valley this morning,' Arwen said quietly, drawing just near enough that her hand might rest upon his shoulder. 'What may I say to bring you back to us?'

He lifted his head that he might look upon her. The sight of her cherished face with its pearl-perfect skin and fathomless eyes awoke in him a humble and wondering joy despite his weariness. She wore a gracious little half-smile upon her rose-kissed lips, and her gaze was gentle.

'I walk nowhere at all,' Aragorn confessed. The words came out in a single sigh. His lungs were looser than they had been: even the previous morning such control over his breath would have been beyond him. 'Sometimes it is best to forego thought a while.'

'You may forego thought if you will,' Arwen allowed, eyes twinkling with ready play instead of worry; 'but not breakfast. Come and be sated. The cooks have sent all manner of dainties to tempt your appetite. Word has gone 'round that Thranduil's steward fed you on bare bread and skimmed milk.'

Aragorn did not deign to ask where this tale had come from. Such talk travelled swiftly, and his near-emaciation could not have passed unremarked. Arwen guessed the truth in the rumour, if indeed she did not know it from Gandalf or her father. Aragorn went instead to the table and drew out one of its slender chairs that Arwen might sit. She settled himself with the seamless grace of an alighting butterfly. He had recovered much of the clean command of the body that was possessed by all swordsmen of skill. Still Aragorn felt gangly and maladroit in contrast, moving with his residual limp to take the other chair gingerly, out of deference to his bruises.

'Gladden a wanderer's heart, Lady, and say that you have not yet eaten,' he said with a courtly lilt that coaxed open her smile. 'We have yet to break bread together since my return.'

'You have my assurance that I have not, my Lord,' Arwen said, sweet and stately at once. 'Your request for victuals came to the kitchens as I was surveying the fruit of the morning's baking. Though today I did not shape the loaves myself, I chose yours with care.'

She picked up a long silver knife from the plate and cut several slender wedges of bread. She took the first and held it out to him.

'Take and be nourished,' she said. 'The bounty of my home I give unto you.'

Aragorn accepted the bread and inclined his head. 'For your gift, my earnest thanks. Proffer it also to they who by the work of their hands have provided for my need.'

Arwen's eyes were warm with love and joy as he tasted of the bread. It was all that he yearned for when walking the Wild: clean and light, both soft and crisp, and still warm from the ovens. Aragorn savoured each sensation of tasting that wondrous bread, forgetting for a few glorious moments his duties, his dread, and the shadow of the night before. Arwen took of her own piece, and then began to uncover the other dishes.

'Why did you not join your maidens in the baking today?' asked Aragorn, finding with pleasure and relief that he did not have to grope for speech. It was true that Arwen did not always undertake that work reserved by ancient custom for the ladies of the Noldor, but she took both pride and pleasure in it and endeavoured to participate whenever she might.

Now she shrugged one slim shoulder. She wore today a gown of purple, dark and flowing, and its sleeve rippled with the motion.

'I was late to descend this morning,' Arwen said, a little too smoothly. She picked up a little porcelain dish and passed it with a smile. 'The very first of the season, procured by the order of the Lady of the valley herself.'

Aragorn took the bowl and smiled. Within sat a little heap of hothouse strawberries, each no larger than a fingernail and enticingly scarlet against the snowy glaze. Their sweet scent tickled his nostrils with the memory of summer in lands unsullied. He plucked one up and let it linger deliciously upon his tongue. The richness of its flavour was disproportionate to its size, and filled his mouth and nostrils. Arwen's eyes shone at his obvious pleasure.

'The days of bounty are upon us,' she said. 'They come early to Imladris, but swiftly shall they spread across the land. Many say that the hard winter portends a loving summer.'

'I have seen too much of the vagaries of nature to make such predictions,' said Aragorn with mild good humour. 'It surpasses my skill to tell you what the skies will do three days from now, much less three months.'

'Yet still will I hope for fair weather,' Arwen said, smiling. She tilted her head to one side and her voice changed almost immeasurably. 'It is said the snows in Rhovanion were deep.'

'They were,' said Aragorn softly. He took a piece of thinly-sliced cheese and used the pretext of chewing it to gather his thoughts. At last he spoke only loudly enough to be heard, wanting to keep as close a rein upon his voice as he was able. 'You have asked so few questions of my road, beloved. What would you know?'

'I know much already,' said Arwen. 'I know that you and Gandalf parted ways in the autumn of the year: he to go where you could not tread, and you to go where he dared not.'

Aragorn's brows furrowed, defence of the wizard rising to his lips as it had ere this, but there was no censure in Arwen's voice or in her eyes. She was merely speaking of the situation as she saw it, and there was some measure of truth in her words. It had been Gandalf's hope, rather than his courage, that had failed him and made the eastward road impassible, but to say he had not dared it was not false.

'I know that you journeyed deep into the marches of the Black Land,' Arwen went on. Her voice was low but steady. 'I know that in the end you found your quarry, and that the northward road was harsh. Most important of all, I know that you have returned to us whole, though not unmarked, and with the knowledge you have so long sought.'

'All that is so,' said Aragorn; 'and it is all that truly matters. Yet you have the right to more, if you wish it. I would willingly keep nothing from you, if you ask it.'

'I would not willingly ask what it will pain you to give,' said Arwen.

'What pain there was lies not in the telling,' Aragorn pledged. 'I cannot but remember it, silently or in my words. To speak of it is no burden beyond that of thinking on it.'

'Then I will ask,' said Arwen. 'But let it not intrude upon our first meal together after so long apart. When we have finished I shall see what may be done with your hair: that will be a more fit time to talk of your travels.'

Somehow she still managed to make this journey sound no different from a score of less onerous absences from Rivendell that he had taken through the years. She would listen to his tidings, as if he brought news of the villages of the Dúnedain, or a tale of a chance encounter on the Road. Arwen was practiced in seeing those she loved ride off into peril and bitter labours, and in welcoming them home again with acceptance and affection. At her door Elladan and Elrohir had always found the same enduring patience and the same sweet strength.

'Far more fit,' Aragorn agreed, though in truth he did not see why it might be any less unsuitable. It was clear, however, that such tales had no place at board. He took another strawberry and offered her the dish and a small smile. 'You have told me nothing of the festivities at the year's changing.'

Arwen's own smile grew radiant once again, and she regaled him gladly with tales of the revels: who had presented a new song or tale, who had given the best (and the worst) rendering of an ancient one, who had fallen rather too deeply into his cups, and who had graced the assembly with the loveliest dances. She had pretty words to say of Bilbo's most recent compositions, and an arch remark or two about the antics of his chiefest critic. Her words wove for Aragorn a gloriously vivid tapestry of the merriment and joy that had flourished here even as he had been groping his way through the vile blackness within the Ephel Dûath. He let himself enter fully into the telling, until it seemed as if he could taste the frost of a moonlit winter night upon his lips and smell the rich spiced wine.

When they were through with their meal, Arwen rose. She went to the door and clapped her hands twice, crisply. Two attendants appeared in short order, and began to clear the table. Even as they departed with their burdens, a trio of Elven maidens came in. This had clearly been arranged, for they bore with them towels, a broom, two large kettles of water, soap, and the carven walnut box holding combs and brush and shears. Swiftly they had everything laid out as their mistress wished, and they retired from the room with pleasant words and deep curtseys.

'Let us sit you near the fire,' said Arwen. 'It would be best if you put your garment from your shoulders: water will mark the cloth.'

The bilaut had a deep opening that ran from the throat to the bottom of the breastbone, and Aragorn unhooked the fine wire clasps. It was an easy thing, then, to remove his arms from the sleeves and bunch the rich fabric down about his waist. Water would do his linen shirt no harm, and it remained where it was. One kettle had been hung on the fire-hook where it could be kept hot. From the other Arwen poured a generous measure of water into the washbasin from the bedroom. She cut it liberally with cool, until the feel of it pleased her hand. Then she draped one of the long towels about Aragorn's shoulders and spread another across his front. Then using a shallow dipper wrought in the shape of a clamshell, she began to wet his hair. She did this with care and with practice, using only as much as she needed and working it through the dark tresses with her fingers. Aragorn had washed them himself only two days before, and so she did not trouble with the soap.

She picked up the larger of her two combs, and set to work smoothing the hair out of its few snarls and tangles. 'I have pretty work ahead of me, putting this to rights,' she said. 'Did a fox take after it with his teeth?'

'At times it was necessary to cut away intractable mats or debris,' Aragorn said. The feel of her hands upon his head and shoulders was at once delightful and so very soothing. Her expert fingers plied the comb, finding each little knot and unravelling it without even the smallest tug upon his scalp.

'Debris?' Arwen echoed.

'Dead leaves, spider silk. And worse,' he said. 'You would have thought me most unlovely had you seen the state of my head when I came to Thranduil's halls.'

He did not hear her bend, but when she spoke her voice was a low breeze of warmth beside his left ear. 'You could never be unlovely in my eyes, Estel, however befouled your hair.'

Aragorn felt a tightness in his throat, hearing words that all who walk hard and often loathsome roads must long to hear. He closed his eyes and tried to fix again upon the consoling sensuous pleasure of a gentle touch after months bereft of such things. 'What would you ask of me?' he said. 'I have promised an accounting.'

'No doubt you have already said much,' Arwen murmured. She had straightened again to focus on her work, and her voice was a degree removed in space though not at all in tone. 'To my father, to Gandalf – even to Bilbo, though I think you have taken great pains not to distress him. If there is aught in those accounts that you wish me to know, you may speak it. Yet I must wonder for myself about those things you did not feel able to tell. Is there anything of which it would give you comfort to speak that they did not think to ask of you?'

He swallowed painfully, but gave earnest thought to her query. He owed her his truthfulness above anything else, and she had a betrothed's right to know what was in his heart. Yet he knew not where to begin, nor what he could bear to tell her.

'I remember little of my earliest days with my prisoner,' he confessed after a few moments. She had been working up from the ends of his hair, and her hands were now at the nape of his neck where night's tangles were thickest. Her fingertips slipped through the curtain of damp strands to brush over his skin in wordless solidarity. 'In capturing Gollum, I took a wound in my arm. There was little hope of keeping it clean in that vile place, for I had scarcely water enough for drinking. It grew infected, and I walked in fever. I cannot recall everything that passed between me and my captive in that time.'

As he spoke Arwen's hands had not faltered. She moved the comb with the same deft rhythm, her other hand smoothing the hair behind it or moving to roll a snarl between finger and thumb before brushing it out. When she spoke, her voice was grave but serene.

'This troubles you,' she said. 'Yet you must know that for those who burn with fever and cannot rest will have difficulty remembering all that came to pass. It is a great mercy that you were not felled by such a hurt, and a testament to your skill that you drove out the infection.'

He had not done that in full until the final lancing in Mirkwood, but Aragorn was not of a mind to be pedantic. He swallowed, though his mouth was dry. 'Those first days were of the greatest import, and I cannot say if I used them well. I cannot hope that I did. Had I succeeded in building some measure of trust between my prisoner and myself, or even in convincing him that I had no intention to harm or torment him, the deeds that followed might have gone otherwise.'

'Bilbo told me there was a struggle in his taking,' said Arwen. 'Yet I cannot think that even so craven a creature could believe you meant to put him to torment.'

Aragorn had to stop himself from shaking his head, remembering just in time that to do so would be to interrupt Arwen's careful efforts. The comb now skimmed along his scalp, light and welcome like a fingernail over an itch too long endured. 'The possibility would have been foremost on his mind,' he said. 'When I found him, he had but lately slipped from the clutches of the servants of the Enemy. They had wrought such torture upon his hands that they healed little more quickly than the wounds to my arm.'

Arwen's breath caught in her throat, and Aragorn was comforted to know that it was a noise of pity for Gollum instead of agony in his own lot. 'Yet surely when you cared for his hurts…'

'He did not allow it,' Aragorn said. 'That much I do recall. Even weeks later, speaking to Gandalf, the wretch complained of my brutal leechcraft. He watched me attempting to cleanse my own hurts, and determined such ministrations were not for him.'

The capable hands did falter this time, but Arwen's voice remained steady. 'It is no fault of your own that he feared you, coming as he did from such a place of horror. Do not allow that thought to sit so heavy in your mind.'

'No.' Aragorn's voice roughened almost into a croak, and he forced another hard swallow before resuming less harshly. 'No, it was at least in some measure a fault of mine. Great force was needed to subdue him by the pool, and I resorted to tactics from which men of honour shirk until the last.'

'And were you at the last?' Arwen asked quietly.

The question surprised him, and he turned to look at her with no thought for his hair. She freed the comb of it in time to keep from pulling, but her eyes were fixed steadily upon him. They were mournful, but bright with the clarity of a practiced logician.

'Were you at the last?' she repeated. 'Did you fear to lose him, or to be lost yourself?'

'Both.' His lips seemed to move of their own accord, for he had not known the answer until that moment. Or perhaps, he had not remembered the answer. It seemed to him now that, grappling in the vile mud of Dagorlad, he had indeed had such a thought, however fleeting.

'Then if there was no other way, you did right,' she said. 'If men of honour shirk from it, but do not shun it, you did right.'

Aragorn could not speak. He stared at her for a long moment, knowing that she could read all that was laid raw in his heart but neither able nor willing to mask it from her. He might wish that she did not have to look upon such miserable things, but he could never have brought himself to deceive her. When at last he found the means, he merely turned his face away and tilted back his head for the comb. She had not asked what he had done to subdue Gollum: she accepted unquestioningly his assessment of its measure of morality.

'Nonetheless, I was not gentle,' he said when at last he trusted his voice. 'Perhaps that first seed of enmity between us might never have been rooted out, but still I wish that I could say I tried. Patience and consideration in those first days might have…' He sighed wearily. 'But I do not remember what was said. I know I kept him gagged, for he had proven his teeth to be a deadly weapon. I withheld food and drink, hoping to tame him with privation. I drove him on without surcease, save when I could go no further myself.'

Arwen's hand came to rest upon his shoulder, caressing the base of his neck while she leaned away from her grasp to pick up her shears. She did not speak, but waited patiently for him to go on.

'Had I the means to mend my actions, I would,' Aragorn said at last.

'How?' asked Arwen. 'Could you have left him ungagged, without further peril to yourself?'

'No,' he admitted heavily. His left hand reached to clutch his arm where the scars lay knotted beneath the fine linen of his sleeve. His torn sinews ached with the memory of those fevered days in the Emyn Muil.

'No,' she echoed; almost a whisper. 'You would have disarmed an orc, stripped a Man of his sword. You would not have left an assassin his knife, or an archer his bow. What of the deprivation? Had you any other means to cow him?'

'I do not know. I did not try,' said Aragorn. His head ached, but he restrained the urge to rub at it. She did not need to know that he was in pain. 'My only thought was to pacify him without the need for harsher measures. I did not wish to beat him. Not then.'

The first snip of the shears sounded, followed by a gentle raking of the comb down the length of his hair. 'How long before the fever left you?' Arwen queried quietly, taking another quick clip.

'A week. Perhaps a little longer.' Looking back upon those days was like trying to count the shingles on a distant roof through thick fog. However keen one's eyes, they could never quite focus.

A cool palm touched his cheek, ostensibly to guide his head a little to the right. Yet it lingered somewhat longer than was quite necessary, and Aragorn closed his eyes. He understood now why Arwen wished to talk of these things as she worked, and silently he praised her wisdom and her mercy. Sitting thus, with his beloved behind him, Aragorn was spared the flickers of unguarded anguish upon her face.

There was silence for a time, broken only by the snip-snip of the well-honed shears.

'I deem that you did what had to be done,' Arwen said at last. 'You were under great strain, unwell and yourself suffering. And you were alone. Do not let it trouble your heart, Estel. Your intention was never to hurt the creature.'

'At times I wished to,' he confessed. 'Seldom have I felt such rage as I did when he cast away a measure of precious water, or upon his last attempt at murder. I endeavoured always to act with restraint and only according to the measure of the moment's need, but there were times when I desired only to smite him with my fists or to shake him senseless.'

He did not know why he was saying these things. Certainly this was not how he wished Arwen to think of him: as a wrathful recreant pressing his advantage upon a helpless captive. But her low, melodious voice and the love in her nimble hands as they moved over and about his scalp made it seem impossible that he should not confide in her, even regarding these darkest leanings of his heart.

'And did you?' she asked now, as peaceably as ever.

'I struck him unconscious with the butt of my knife as we floundered in Gladden,' Aragorn said, realizing too late that he had not intended to give her any suspicion of what he had there endured. 'That act was necessary: there was no other way to still him, and he had escaped once already. I could not struggle with him and win our way to the far shore at once. I think… I think that once I shook him, in the days before we reached Lothlórien.'

He sighed, again remembering just in time that he should not shake his head. He raised his hands as if the sight of them might clarify the hazy memory. 'I do not think it was more than a quick jolt as I took him by the shoulders, but I cannot – I cannot be certain.'

'I can,' Arwen murmured, and there was such tender conviction in her voice that Aragorn found it impossible to disbelieve it himself.

There was yet one deed that haunted him, clawing at the depths of his heart despite the knowledge that there had been no other way. 'I thrashed him,' Aragorn whispered. 'On the far side of Gladden, after… I thrashed him. Nine swift strokes with a willow wand, across his upper back. I took no joy in it, but he had to be punished. He walked in fear of me for many days thereafter.'

The shears stopped their cutting, and for an awful instant Aragorn was certain that he had repulsed her at last. But then he heard the soft song of water and felt it trickle along his skull and behind his ear. She had paused to wet his hair, and having done so she set to work with the comb again.

'What happened at Gladden?' she asked, her voice tender but very taut.

Aragorn swallowed against a sharp, high pain in his throat. 'He broke the ice. The river was thawing. In a week more it would have been breaking up, but I had hoped for a dry crossing. Midway Gollum flung his full weight down, and scuttled us.' He screwed his eyes closed, less against the memory than against the surety of how this knowledge would wound her. 'As I hung useless in the middle depths, all my faculties bent upon resisting the urge to gasp in a lungful of the river, he slipped his rope from my hand and sped away beneath the downstream ice. I caught him, for he had forgotten how the line would trail behind, but it was a near thing.'

Arwen gripped one of his shoulders with the last three fingers of each hand. She held still the comb in one and the scissors in the other, but it was clear that in that moment she was unable to use them. 'Through the ice,' she breathed, her hold tightening. 'In winter in Rhovanion, he put you through the ice.'

'And himself also,' Aragorn said hollowly, as if this could possibly be a comfort.

'Ai, Estel!' There was such a weight of hurt and love and pity in those simple syllables that Aragorn thought his heart would break. Then Arwen bent and kissed the crown of his head. Her right hand left his arm and the shears were tilted ungainfully outward so that she could stroke his cheek with the side of her smallest finger. 'Wet garments and bitter cold: how did you survive it?'

'It was then that clubbed him with my knife,' he said, longing only to fill the air with his own babbling so that he did not have to think of what he had said – of what he was about to say. 'Somehow I hoisted us both out of the water onto solid ice again, and won through to the bank. There I found such shelter as I could and laid a fire to thaw me and to dry my clothes. It was not a pleasant night, but we both lived through it. When dawn came I whipped him, and pressed on as best I could.'

'He earned his whipping,' said Arwen. The strain in her voice was plain, but she was exerting a great and valiant effort to master it. 'After such sedition, he had to be punished. Do not tell me this preys upon your heart, Aragorn. You are a Captain, a great leader great of Men. You have steered legions into battle. You know the necessity of discipline if one is to lead where the others must follow.'

'Aye,' he said hoarsely. 'But never before have I won discipline with a whip.'

'A willow-wand, you said before,' she corrected. 'Did you draw blood? Did you even raise a welt?'

At last he did shake his head. She had not resumed her trimming. He heard her swift, neat motions, but could not discern what they might signify. 'I had no wish to do it then,' he said. 'But there were other times, even unto the days of his questioning in Thranduil's dungeons, that I longed to do as much and more – to punish him, to silence him, to cow him.'

Silk skirts whispered as Arwen rounded him. She bent before him, gripping each arm of the chair and looking up into his face. Her own was very white and her lips made thin with care, but she was beautiful. Her eyes were great in their shadowy greyness, and as bright as he had ever seen them. The sincerity and love within them shone like the lamps of Valinor.

'What you wished matters not beside what you have done,' she swore, her voice as emphatic as her eyes. 'Did you even once strike him in anger? Did you seek to cow him for power's sake, when it was not needful to safeguard your life or prevent his escape? Did you at any time, even in your direst extremity, treat him with anything less than justice and honourable acts?'

Aragorn's lips moved, but he could not speak. He could not take his eyes from hers, either, though he wished to hang his head. He looked at her, so fair and so loving and so merciful in her wisdom, and for a single shining moment he saw himself as she did: as one who had endured what no one should have been driven to suffer, whose patience had been tried beyond the limits of reason, and who had still borne himself with nobility of purpose and of act. It was a startling revelation.

'You did not let this creature break your integrity,' Arwen said softly. She reached up to stroke the side of his jaw with the backs of delicately curled fingers. 'Do not let him break your spirit.'

Aragorn drew in a deep, shuddering breath as if he had only now emerged from Gladden's frigid currents. Plaintive eyes followed Arwen as she rose and in a single smooth motion drew him to her. His head was level with her waist, and she held it to her with one strong and tender hand so that his cheek was pressed to the soft warmth of her gown. Her other hand rested upon his back, closing the circle of the embrace. There was a moment when she held him thus, her love unanswered. Then his own arms reached about her skirt, gathering in the lavish folds of silk so that he might feel her steady stance beneath them. There was no bodily passion in their embrace: only the yearning to comfort and be comforted, to touch and be touched, to love and be loved.

When at last Aragorn drew back a little, his hands moving to rest at either side of her supple waist as he looked up at his Lady, he saw that Arwen's cheeks glistened with tears. She stroked his head and shook her own.

'Forgive yourself, beloved,' she said. 'Not one among us can even find that which might warrant the need for forgiveness.'

As one they moved to take each other's hands, the coarse and the satin-soft fingers curling in a caress that was at once both measured and profoundly intimate. Aragorn tried to smile. His lips quivered and for a moment he did not know if it could be done. But the radiance of her adoration and the depth of her faith in him so buoyed his spirit that he found he was able after all.

'I shall try, vanimelda,' he murmured, speaking from the most secret places in his heart as he spoke the vow. 'With your grace to guide me, I shall try.'

Her own smile took on a light of mirth that sparkled above her pained joy. 'Very well then!' she declared merrily, drawing back her hands with a dramatic little flourish. 'Now I must finish with your hair! My efforts have not proceeded far enough to be anything but unfavorable: you look more bedraggled now than ever before!'

He gave her the upward half of a nod as she danced lissomely around the chair again. She drizzled another measure of warm water upon his head and drew the comb through to straighten his tresses. Then she set to work with the shears again, dark coils falling upon his shoulders and the floor about the feet of the chair. It was but further proof of the bond between them that Arwen knew at once Aragorn's need for silent contemplation in the wake of all that had been said. For a long while, contented in one another's company, they did not speak.

lar

That afternoon and all the next day passed peaceably for Aragorn. He slept well, ate plentifully, and went about the valley renewing acquaintances with dear friends. He tarried in the library with Erestor, and walked the apple orchard with Glorfindel. With other childhood companions and the comrades-in-arms of his youth, he sat and talked of inconsequential matters instead of dark times and grim deeds to come. He spent a very pleasant evening in Bilbo's room, smoking together while the hobbit gave the Dúnadan all of his own news.

He also went out to the south pasture to visit Moroch. She saw him from afar and came at a gallop, dark mane and tail rippling behind her. She made a full circle 'round him as she slowed, and nuzzled him lovingly. Aragorn scratched her ears, murmuring glad words, and when she bent he relented of his determination merely to see her. He mounted her Elf-fashion, with neither saddle nor bridle, and let her canter about as she pleased for nearly half an hour. When he dismounted, Moroch nudged him with her nose, then trotted a few feet away and lay down to roll blissfully in the grass. It was plain that she was enjoying her time in Imladris.

After that, he went to the far paddock to visit his own horse. After Moroch's light-footed litheness, Roheryn looked enormous. He was tall even by the standards of the horses of the North, with thick-sinewed limbs and coarse hair well suited to hard winters. He was no pleasure-pony, and no fleet footed sprinter built to weave between the trees. Roheryn was a war-horse, bred and trained for the battle-charge and the long, tireless march. He came to his master sedately, conscious of their shared dignity however glad his greeting and the tossing of his proud head. He had been kept in top condition by the horse-master and the grooms, and he was fit and strong. Aragorn gave him an apple, and made much of him for a time. Then with a promise that the stallion would soon carry him again, he took his leave with the peace of mind that only they who have seen their dear possessions well-tended in their absence may feel.

It was ordained that the sixth night after the travellers' return should be set aside in celebration. That morning, Aragorn lingered late in his bed before rising to bathe. The large tub before his anteroom fire was perhaps not the immersing sensuous experience that the bathing-cavern in the Elvenking's hall had been, but its comfort was greater, for it had the familiarity of home. He washed his hair and stood before the glass combing it carefully so that it would not fly wild as it dried.

Arwen had done wondrous work in restoring some order to his skull, though it had necessitated a somewhat closer cut than he was accustomed to. Still it was neat, and his head was covered all over with the fresh crisp feeling of new-cut hair. Most importantly, it would no longer be an impediment to health and cleanliness when he returned to the Wild. Furthermore, Aragorn noted with some small pleasure, without the dark mass of hair long and wild about it, his face did not look quite so gaunt and famine-stricken.

He took a light luncheon in the company of Bilbo and Gandalf, for there was no use in eating anything terribly substantial before one of Rivendell's sumptuous feasts. Then in the quiet of the afternoon he did as most of the household was doing: he retreated to his rooms to dress.

Aragorn stood for a time over the chest that held his coat of Elven mail, considering. Since his return to the North after his errantries in Gondor, it had been his custom to wear it on such occasions. It was befitting of his deeds, of the duties laid upon him and the hope held within him. Yet this time he hesitated. Upon this occasion his deeds were not those of war, even covert, but those of stealth and grim endurance. He did not feel like a returning champion or a beloved prince of the household, but like a traveller who reaches a peaceful haven after many days' struggle through bitter storms. Still he might have gone through with his old practice but for one other consideration. Although the mail would fit him well about the shoulders, it would hang loose farther down his wasted frame. It was also heavy, for splendid though it was it was only silvered steel, and it would wear upon his much-taxed endurance to carry that weight with him through the night.

So he left the mail, and faced the trials of choice that waited him in the clothespress. He felt as foolish as a boy of fifteen, agonizing over what to wear that he might be taken seriously by the household. Of course, insecurities change with age, and Aragorn's desire now was to appear at ease, sedate and not in the least uncomfortable at the attention being lavished upon a journey he was striving to forget. Clearly this was not an occasion for any ordinary silks or satins.

At last, and not without a good deal more sarcastic puzzling, he settled upon a cote of dark velvet with revers worked with silver cord and spangles like tiny stars. Once that garment was selected, the rest of the ensemble was easy to assemble. He chose hose of deep green, though it took some judicious folding to make them smooth upon his too-lean legs, and found his mantle of silver tissue shot with green. This he almost never wore, for it was a garment not for a wanderer or warrior but for a king. Yet tonight he could use a little borrowed confidence, even if it skirted the bounds of pretension.

For adornments he needed little. There was a slender silver cord to wear as a filet in his hair, and he clasped the mantle with his silver star. He chose not to gird himself with Narsil, though such was his right by birth and by deed, for he wore not the mail and tonight was to be a night of peace, when he might lay by his cares a little while. All that remained then was to see himself shod. His soft leather shoes, linseed-brown and worn into comfortable creases with long use, were clearly unsuitable. He had made no move towards replacing his walking wear. And so he took up the point-toed, elaborately tooled green boots that had been made for him in Mirkwood, and he slid them onto his feet.

Thus arrayed and feeling the confidence that fine clothes must always bring, he descended to the great hall. Many were already assembled, though the bell had not yet tolled out the call to the gathering. The first Aragorn saw upon entering was none other than Glorfindel, clad in crimson and gold with his bright hair loose about his shoulders.

'Ah, Dúnadan!' he said, drawing Aragorn in for a quick embrace. 'You look well tonight. It is good to see the light of expectation in your eyes. No doubt the Lady will feel the same.'

'So I hope, my friend,' Aragorn said quietly, glancing up the length of the high table. Arwen's canopied seat stood vacant, and he could not see her among the milling ladies. 'She has not seen me at my best these last days.'

Glorfindel laughed, and not unkindly, as he clapped Aragorn's elbow. 'You do not for a moment imagine that she would look askance at your need, who have once more discharged a miserable duty with grace and fortitude. Therefore you shall not have reassurances from me! Looking upon you tonight, she will be hard-pressed to discern which of us is the Elven lord and which the mighty son of kings.'

It was flattery, but not meant to curry favour or to build false pride. Aragorn smiled and shook his head. 'If ever a son of kings had such a golden crown, it is not told of in song or story.'

This time the laugh was rich with the unbridled joy that was Glorfindel's greatest strength and gift to those around him. 'And this is why I should not tease you, Estel: you have a sharp tongue and a sharper wit. I should have learned that long ago, I suppose, but the Firstborn can be remarkably slow in study,' he said. Then he took Aragorn by the arm and guided him away from the door into the corner behind Elrond's great chair.

'I wish you to know that you will not be at your accustomed place tonight,' Glorfindel said quietly, his expression now gravely earnest. 'It is no judgment upon the matters which lie unspoken betwixt you and your father, nor is it to deprive you of the delight of your lady's company. But it is you who are the great guest of honour, and it is fitting that you sit beside the Master tonight.'

Aragorn shook his head, dismayed. 'Not above Gandalf!' he protested. Even in Mirkwood he had not been put in that awkward position.

Glorfindel shook his head. 'Gandalf shall have his accustomed place to Elrond's left,' he said. 'You are to take mine upon his right.'

Aragorn's lips thinned as he considered this. Among Men this would indeed place him above the Istar. Yet among the Noldor the right was by tradition the lesser of two honoured seats. For it was with the right hand that Morgoth had held the stolen Silmarils in the wastes of Araman, denying their light to the great beast Ungoliant in breach of his word. It was with his right hand that Morgoth had secured the downfall of Finwë's people.

'It is unfitting that I should be placed above you, also,' Aragorn said at length. 'Yet if you will, I shall accept this tribute as a gift from a gracious lord and a dear friend. In sooth it would do my heart good to be near Master Elrond tonight, even if I must forego the Lady Arwen's fair talk.'

'Only a little while,' said Glorfindel, eyes sparkling playfully. 'If you think she will stray far from your side during the singing, you are less wise that has so oft been said.'

Aragorn smiled, a rich and earnest smile. But he had seen another enter the hall, and he excused himself from Glorfindel that he might greet she of whom they had been speaking.

A hush had fallen on the near portion of the company as Lady Arwen entered the room. She was clad all over in silver and green, her gown of crisp tissue so like that of Aragorn's mantle that they might have been cut from the same bolt. The folds and ripples of her flowing skirts shimmered in the candlelight as if she were a star stepped down from the heavens to walk upon the earth. Her mantle was of velvet, and in honour of her betrothed it had been dyed the deep woodland green of the Rangers. Her hair she wore in twin plaits, long and thick and sleek as raven's wing, and they were bound with silver shafts ornamented all over with the fine filigree only achievable by the Age-long practice of Noldorin fingers. About her throat there hung a gem, white and lovely upon its silver chain. As his eyes rested briefly upon it, Aragorn felt the burdens of his heart ease by yet another small but distinct degree.

Only briefly did he look upon it, for his eyes were drawn inexorably to her face. For all her finery, it was the crowning jewel. Her flawless skin had the glow of youth, and her eyes the deep wisdom of age. Her lips were upturned in a tiny, hopeful smile as she searched the assembly. It blossomed into purest joy when she spied him coming towards her. Upon her brow she wore a slender circlet set with beryls, and it glimmered as she dipped a low and graceful curtsey.

'My Lord,' she said, her love and her hope overflowing the two simple words.

Aragorn bowed, deeply and with all the poise of one trained to manhood in a great court, who had served long in another yet more formal. His ankle hindered him not at all in this, though it twinged its little protest lest he should forget it entirely. When he straightened, he saw that Arwen had her hands outstretched for their customary embrace. He took them in his own, standing at one respectful remove, and he smiled for her.

'My Lady,' he said. 'You are a vision to soothe the most troubled of hearts, and you rival even the moonlight on the waters.'

'And you, Dúnadan,' she said more quietly as they transitioned from clasped hands to a ceremonial pose, with her arm resting upon his that he might escort her to her honoured place. 'You have brought the glory of the kings of old to my father's hall tonight.' She reached with her free hand to pluck the edge of his mantle. 'I had hoped you might wear it,' she whispered. 'I did not think you would wish to don your mail for these gentle revels.'

Aragorn's heart was great within him. How well she knew his thoughts! In that moment of wonder and tenderness it seemed to him that nothing he had ever achieved in his long years of deeds both great and unseen could have made him worthy of such love. He led her to the high table, those nearby parting to let them pass. All knew of their troth, and of the desperate hopes wound up within it. Most loved both Lady and Lord too much to cast any ill judgment upon their desired union.

Still Aragorn was glad to see Arwen seated before the ringing of the bell that heralded the coming of the lord of the valley and the beginning of the festivities. He could not deny either of them these small gestures of public affection, but neither of them wished to pain Elrond's heart more than the truth of their love must do. He did not grudge it, for they were each too dear to him for that. Yet though they never spoke of it, Aragorn knew that his foster-father mourned for the parting that lay ahead if light prevailed against Shadow. To lose one of them he was reconciled, for it was foreordained from the very start. To lose them both, and most of all she who was the best beloved of his heart, was a prospect that could not easily be borne even by the most patient of shoulders.

He bade Arwen a quiet farewell until the end of the feast, and when he began to explain he saw at once that she already knew. Aragorn wondered then whether it was by Glorfindel's grace after all that he was to have the high seat. He bowed once more to Arwen, and moved up to the end of the table just as Elrond himself came into the hall.

The lord of the valley was himself clad in green, for it was fitting for the season. His garb was of a brighter shade than Aragorn's, but not so shiningly opulent as Arwen's gown. He wore satin and fine damask, and upon his dark head sat the silver circlet that was a token of his rank. Aragorn knew its lineage, though many even in Imladris did not, and the sight of it brought to his heart a deep love – far older than that he held for Arwen.

'Atarinya,' he said softly, as he and Elrond met at the corner of the dais. They embraced without word or sign, and Elrond's slender hand cupped briefly the crown of Aragorn's head, even as he had held him in the wake of night's terrors short days before.

'My son. How fine you look!' Elrond said as they stepped back out of the embrace. He surveyed Aragorn from head to toe and back. 'I am honoured by your efforts, for I know such things do not come naturally after too long bereft of any choice in one's raiment.'

Aragorn could not but smile at this succinct summary of his feelings on the matter. 'If I am to accept your honours, I should endeavour to appear worthy of them,' he said. 'Clothes make not the man, but they do bolster his confidence at times.'

'So they do,' Elrond agreed. He gestured to the chair that stood to the right of his own. 'Have you been told of the arrangements?'

'Yes,' Aragorn said, and he moved to the seat. He waited until Elrond settled in his own and gestured that those yet standing should find their comfort. Then he settled, even as Gandalf came striding up to take his place.

'You see?' he asked, unceremoniously satisfied and foregoing the customary preambles. He took in Aragorn's countenance with a flap of one hand. 'Now that all the effort is behind you, it is not so terrible, is it?'

'It is not,' Aragorn agreed warmly. Glorfindel was at his other side now, taking the seat next in precedence to that he ordinarily held with the ease of one enjoying a cushioned chair after too long upon a hard bench. Aragorn looked at him, eyebrow arched, and the Elf-lord grinned.

Attendants came out, bearing wine and breads, and the feast began. It idled through three languid hours filled with talk and laughter and the camaraderie that came of many hundreds of years together. Despite his relative youth and far briefer time in the valley, Aragorn felt nothing but the warmth of belonging. From the age at which he could be counted upon to put more food in his mouth than he did in his hair, he had dined among these folk. This was the board of his boyhood, and he was content.

He ate far more eagerly than he had at Thranduil's table, and not only because his stomach was recovering its capacity. It was a far less ostentatious thing to dine in this hall where those at the high table were not laid out as if upon a stage. Conversation and serving dishes were passed across the laden board with the same easy grace that those at the lesser places enjoyed, and all about the hall there was the air of insouciant delight.

At length the last course was served and the last wine drunk. Although he had imbibed more liberally this night than on the prior occasion, Aragorn's head was clear as he waited for Elrond to rise. Arwen came to him, and father and daughter walked arm-in-arm to lead the assembly in their exodus. Aragorn followed just behind, with Gandalf at his side. The wizard looked better rested and more at peace than Aragorn had seen him in many, many months. Even before their parting in the South, Gandalf had been careworn by the long, fruitless hunt and its fearsome stakes. Tonight he had laid his cares aside.

'I should warn you that there will be song tonight,' he said as they removed to the corridor that led to the Hall of Fire.

Aragorn laughed lightly. 'I had deduced that,' he said. 'Though you may not know to look upon me in my daily labours, I am no stranger to such gatherings.'

'I mean,' said Gandalf with a note of roguish annoyance; 'that there will be songs about you.'

Aragorn's step faltered, and he felt his own burst of irritation tempered liberally by sudden embarrassment. 'Gandalf! Tell me you did not.'

'Did not have Bilbo compose a piece to honour your hunt? No, I did not.' The wizard sighed regretfully, shaking his head as though a glorious opportunity had slipped through his fingers. 'But I have entrusted a certain set of tabulature to a nimble-fingered healer and herbarian whose skill upon the lute is not inconsiderable, and who possesses the appropriately contralto timbre of voice.'

It took a moment for Aragorn to puzzle through this series of complex clauses, but as they reached the door to the Hall he reached the end of his wondering. 'The Flight of the Eagle,' he said. 'The song of Thorongil which you brought from Gondor.'

Gandalf nodded. 'Your father knows nothing of it, nor does your beloved,' he said. 'I thought perhaps you would be less discomfited if you could share in the presentation instead of being this time surprised.'

Aragorn's eyes narrowed in long-learned suspicion. 'And what do you mean by that?' he asked warily.

The wizard laughed and leaned in to speak, for they were now well past the threshold and the room was designed to be most conducive to sound. 'Only that you may sit in quiet pride despite the many eyes upon you, and receive your due adulations with good grace,' he said, and he winked.

Aragorn shook his head, helpless before the determination of Gandalf the Grey. He moved towards the great fire where Bilbo (who rarely attended the common table at all in these days, much less a formal feast) was already settled in his usual seat, alert and smiling broadly in welcome as he beckoned to his friend. The Dúnadan went gladly, as in the far corner the first melodious chords sounded from Elven harps. The revels had begun.